


Always

by Hallianna



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Inquisitor Hawke, Love over the years, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: In the end, all that mattered was that Hawke was alive.  But even Inquisitor Hawke has his limits, and Varric realizes that the Mark will force him to lose his only true friend, and the only person he's ever loved.  And he's determined to see that not happen.





	Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calysto1395](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calysto1395/gifts).



“You can’t keep going on like this, Hawke.”

Garrett scoffed and threw back the rest of some pretty incredible whiskey. “I’m only one down. Who are you and what did you do with Varric?” He nudged the dwarf in the ribs. “Come on, match me. Drink for drink with an old friend.”

Varric bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing the urge to yell at the man. They’d been friends for years, and Varric knew that Hawke, much like the wind, changed direction at a moment’s notice. And Inquisitor Hawke wasn’t tempered by his title or duty. But people still fell in line behind him, fell in love with him, and became utterly enamored of the hulking man who happened to be their leader. And a mage.

Varric loved him desperately, but right now he was very angry at his dear, dear friend and his incredible stupidity. And he was very, very afraid for him.

“It’s killing you, you know,” Varric said as he watched Hawke begin to creep forward toward his whiskey glass. “And I get not wanting to talk about it. Or even wanting to acknowledge it. But this is me, Hawke.” He pushed the glass over and Hawke took it without hesitation.

“Varric -”

“I’m serious.” The green light under Hawke’s hand pulsed slightly and Hawke hissed. Varric flinched at the sound. “This is bad.”

_Understatement there, Varric. Good job, keep underselling it._

Hawke poured more whiskey and said, “All the more reason for this.”

Varric could feel desperation settle into his bones, forcing him down. He sank in his chair and put his head in his hand, not looking at his friend.

There was a long, quiet moment, broken only by the sounds of a glass being set down on wood and the floor creaking. “Varric.”

Hawke’s voice was closer now and gods help him, Varric looked up. Hawke was right there, kneeling in front of him. Close enough to touch. But his gaze was fixed on the pulsating, sickly green light underneath Hawke’s hand.

“I know,” Hawke said softly, pushing himself up on his knees so they were eye to eye. “I know, and I’m an asshole, and I’ve been trying to avoid this conversation with everyone.” He looked down, his mouth tense. “Especially with you.”

A thousand replies raced across Varric’s brain, many of them full of exasperation and worry. So why deny what he was feeling?

Why deny any of it anymore? The worst was over. Corypheus was dead. Solas was in the wind. Skyhold was forever growing. And the Inquisitor was famous, infamous, and revered.

But Hawke was just a man. His friend for years and years. And now he was dying. The spectre of what was and what could be haunted Varric every day, every moment. And the one question that any writer has to ask themselves was the one Varric couldn’t stand to ponder any longer.

_What if?_

_What if they’d never left Kirkwall? What if he hadn’t been taken by Cassandra’s men? What if Hawke hadn’t come to the Conclave to rescue him?_

The words what if echoed in his mind and he shut his eyes against the onslaught.

“Varric. Please.”

He couldn’t take one more word.

So he walked away. And Hawke let him.

Varric wandered the grounds of Skyhold for hours, battlement to battlement, room to room. He never found the answer he wanted as he paced the halls, only more questions. He certainly didn’t feel any better. He wanted to avoid Hawke until he got his thoughts in order, like outlining a story, just so he’d know the beginning, middle, and end.

But how do you organize what if? How do you make your peace with such a question? If Varric had total control of the story, he would have confessed his feelings a long time ago, before the destruction in Kirkwall and Anders’ death. It might have happened in a similarly bloody and destructive fashion, but then he and Hawke would have gotten the hell out of there. They would have sailed with Isabela to Antiva, would have found a shack by the sea, and lived out a peaceful existence as payment in full for all that destruction, death and blood.

They would have been so fucking happy.

It was the best and worst kind of dream Varric rarely indulged in but tonight, he needed an alternate timeline to relish in for a little while. Somewhere, physically and mentally, away from Hawke.

But try as he might, he couldn’t avoid him for too long. Like a goddamn beacon, he was pulled back to his friend again the next night. All the anger and sadness was gone and replaced with a quiet acceptance of the facts: Hawke was Hawke, after all, and even when he was being his most stubborn and aggravating, he knew when to give Varric space. Moreso, he knew when to conveniently be around when Varric wanted to find him.

The tavern was dark save the fire in the hearth and a lone candle on the scarred oak bar. Hawke was hunched over, shoulders near his ears. Varric could see those were the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, and barely spotted the outline of bare feet balancing on the thin rungs of the barstool. He hesitated in the doorway and quickly looked around to ensure Hawke was alone.

“Join me?”

The siren sang, and he heeded the call. The echo of his boots across the floor sounded like thunder in his ears but he kept walking, suddenly very nervous.

Hell, it wasn’t nerves. It was fear. He knew that, he just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

His throat closing, he settled on the stool to Hawke’s right but refused to look over at the man. Hawke didn’t move, didn’t look up as he said, “I’m sorry.”

That was unexpected. Not that Hawke said it, but that it happened so early. The bubble of tension in the room popped.

“Hawke -”

“No, Varric….I gotta get this out.” He now turned to Varric, dark eyes oddly bright in the green light cast from his hand. “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I could go into a giant speech about why but I don’t want to do that. It’s cruel to you and makes this all about me.” He grabbed Varric’s hand with his good one. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m stupid and selfish and this isn’t what I want.” He held up his marked hand. “I know it’s killing me. It’s like poison in my veins, some slow death by something forced upon me that I can’t fix or cure. And I’m starting to regret all of it.”

There were no words. Oh, Varric had words, and a rather indomitable command of them in every situation, but now they were beyond him. As angry as he’d been last night, and many nights before that, he found himself without response or recourse.

“I regret a lot of things, Varric. I’d like to stop.”

Hawke surged forward, long, calloused fingers suddenly sliding along Varric’s jaw. His thumb dragged down Varric’s cheek, dangerously close to his lips. That ball of worry and anger that had made a home in Varric’s stomach dissipated as the heat of Hawke’s touch sparked through his entire body.

He swallowed hard, barely eeking out the words. “Are you sure?”

Hawke nodded, expression a mix of serious and hopeful. “We’ve been dancing around each other too fucking long.”

And that was all Varric needed. He cupped the back of Hawke’s head, tangling his fingers in thick black hair. “Agreed.”

He became fire, bright and all-consuming. He borrowed a little of what burned so fiercely inside Hawke, part for himself and part in attempt to soothe the inferno. He chased desperate kisses with ones of his own, stopping only to push him out the tavern door and up, up, up the stairs to Hawke’s chambers.

And then he didn’t stop. He showed Hawke where and how with his fingers and tongue. He trapped the long, suddenly far too lean lines of Hawke’s body with the strength of his muscles, ignoring the faint green halo around them because in the end, it didn’t matter. Everything unsaid was written with their bodies.

The years side by side had never been wasted, because it had all led to this. And whatever was on the path ahead, they’d find a way.

“I love you,” Varric said much, much later. “I’m always going to be here, Hawke. I promise.” He never said anything he didn’t mean.

“You’ll help me?” Hawke asked hoarsely, holding up his hand. “With this?”

Varric laced his fingers between Hawke’s, pressing their palms together until the green light was extinguished between them. “I’d never let you go it alone.”

When the time came to rid Hawke of the Mark, Varric was right there. When it came time for Hawke to hang up the Inquisitor’s mantle, Varric was right there, too, standing proudly beside his friend. His love.

As he always had been.


End file.
